


deleted your number (so i can't call you)

by tofiveohfive



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Back Together, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 21:53:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofiveohfive/pseuds/tofiveohfive
Summary: Harry wakes up to a voicemail.It’s Saturday morning and it’s raining, a barely there drizzle. He sees the notification as soon as he picks up his phone from the bedside table, bleary eyes making it hard to distinguish the words. He’s got a few instagram mentions, a couple unread texts, but what really stands out is the “Missed Call and Voicemail”.From Louis.Or the ten hours before Harry comes home to Louis, and the five hours after he does.





	deleted your number (so i can't call you)

**Author's Note:**

> ok so LANY released an angsty af album and i just had to write something based on it. also, loosely based on [this post](http://tofiveohfive.tumblr.com/post/178428828369). furthermore, i've always wanted to write a story involving a drunk voicemail. what i'm saying is, here, have this grand pile of all the angsty thoughts i've ever had haha.
> 
> this wouldn't be even remotely coherent without the help of my lovely beta [britt](http://thepeacering.tumblr.com). i also owe all my gratitute to [ste](http://twoghostsacoustic.tumblr.com/), for jumping on the bandwagon at the last minute and helping me improve this, and to [amber](http://behisbest.tumblr.com), for consistenly being the best thing this fandom has brought me.
> 
> title from ruel's 'younger'.
> 
> warnings: overestimation of the price of white-out bottles & excessive drama levels. also, a complete lack of boning, sorry. 
> 
> if you notice any mistakes, please let me know.  
> enjoy!

Harry wakes up to a voicemail.

It’s Saturday morning and it’s raining, a barely there drizzle. He sees the notification as soon as he picks up his phone from the bedside table, bleary eyes making it hard to distinguish the words. He’s got a few instagram mentions, a couple unread texts, but what stands out is the “ _Missed Call and Voicemail_ ”.

From Louis.

He feels his stomach lurch, a knot of anxiety unravelling and making the tips of his fingers go numb. They haven’t spoken in five weeks. Harry has no idea what Louis’ got to say.

Feeling unsettled, he sits up and reminds himself to take deep breaths. He waits for the sharp pain in his chest to subside before he gets out of bed, the morning breeze raising shivers on his unstable legs.

He heads straight to the bathroom, phone clutched tight and burning a hole in his hand. He feels somewhat torn between throwing it out the window and keeping it in plain view, as close as possible.

Harry doesn’t really understand his body’s reaction to a simple notification, but he suspects it might have to do with the fact that the voicemail now consists in his first connection to Louis in more than a month. It makes sense that a part of him — the scarred part — wouldn’t want to lose sight of it.

In all honesty, it’s hard to piss and brush his teeth while still holding the phone, but he manages. He makes sure to leave the bathroom without looking in the mirror. It’s not like he needs his reflection to confirm the effect Louis still has on him.

When he walks into his small kitchen, he finds that the early fine rain has dampened the windowsill, along with the scented candles he’d put there and the floor underneath it.

“Dammit,” he curses under his breath.

Harry finally puts the phone down on the counter, reaching inside the cabinet to grab a dishcloth. He cleans the mess with wobbly movements, feeling more unhinged with every passing second. It’s like he woke up to a raging tornado, his head spinning and everything seeming out of focus.

When that’s done, he proceeds to fill in the kettle, turning on the stove and leaning against the counter. He doesn’t think he’s ready to listen to Louis’ voice again, but the thought of facing all that before even having had his tea is  unbearable.

While he waits for the water to boil, he stares down at the phone, a frown creasing his brows. Why now? What could have possibly had happened to make Louis reach out now?

He tries to keep his expectations low, tries not to imagine the voicemail to be some kind of desperate plea for him to come back, for them to work this out. His jaw and wrists are clenched tight with how hard he’s trying to keep himself in check, but it’s futile. He can already sense the vicious, slow, hopeful feeling clawing its way up his insides.

Turning his back to the counter once more, he takes his time making a cuppa, one deep breath at a time.

There’s cold wind coming through the window when he enters the living room, but Harry fears he might suffocate if he dares to close it, so he chooses to put on some clothes instead. He grabs the hoodie lying on the couch and opts to forgo any underwear. Walking over to the beaten up loveseat by the window, he sits gingerly on it, moving slowly not to spill his tea. After taking a careful sip, he finally unlocks his screen, clicking on the phone icon.

He takes what feels like the deepest breath of his life and raises the phone to his ear.

“ _So, guess what I found in my old suitcase,_ ” is how Louis starts off.

Harry actually snorts at that. Drunk Louis didn’t even deem it necessary to apologize for calling at ass o’clock in the morning. Because he is. Drunk, that is. Harry recognizes the petulant tone in his voice.

“ _Did you leave it there on purpose?”_ Louis asks, sounding pissed off. Harry feels his face scrunch in confusion. _“The stupid necklace?”_

He feels an icy shiver run its way down his spine. “Shit.”

“ _‘Cause if you did_ —” Harry hears the sound of him gulping down something. “ _If you did, that’s really fucked up, H._ ”

He hadn’t left the necklace on purpose. In his haste to leave Louis’ apartment as quickly as possible, Harry had only managed to gather the essentials, the everyday stuff. To be honest, he hadn’t even thought of that necklace in months, even _before_ leaving. It didn’t seem like that much of a deal anymore, considering the dozens of gifts Louis had gotten him over the years.

Right now, it feels like a big fucking deal.

“ _I understand you being angry at me, I do,_ ” Louis’ voice is like sand on stone, grittier than Harry has ever heard. “ _I’d be angry too. I_ am _angry. But that doesn’t mean…”_

He stops there and doesn’t say anything for a long time. Harry has half a mind to check if that was it, if the message was over, but then Louis lets out a shaky sigh.

“ _It’s not the first thing I found_.” Harry blinks, caught off guard by the sudden sadness in Louis’ voice. He tries to keep up with the change of subject. “ _Last week, I was looking for my Legal Studies folder and I found your notebook. You know, the one with all the little notes in the corners and—”_ Louis lets out what sounds a lot like a sob and Harry wants to _scream_. He’ll burn that notebook as soon as he grabs a hold of it again.

“ _But_ the necklace. _It really did a number on me, that one_. _I thought—_ ” Louis clears his throat. “ _I thought that, despite the ugly, we could keep the memories. The good, you know? But you left it here, so I guess now I know how you feel about it.”_

Harry feels the taste of iron on his tongue and that’s when he realizes how hard he’s biting his bottom lip. He moves to bite his tongue, instead. The hurt in Louis’ voice is enough to bring a bitter taste to his mouth, he doesn’t need to add blood to the mix.

His attention is brought back to the message when Louis lets out a snort. “ _I was so afraid of listening to your voice._ _When I pressed call, all I could think about was how long it took me to forget how my name sounds coming out of your mouth.”_ Louis takes one more gulp of whatever he’s drinking. “ _But now that you didn’t pick up, it’s like the silence is louder than anything you could have said._ ”

Something violent tries to rip its way out of Harry’s chest. It might be his heart.

“ _Do you…”_ Louis sniffs. “ _Do you ever feel like you’re constantly underwater? It’s like. It’s like my life is happening around me, yeah? But I can’t listen and I can’t think. Or_ breathe _. I’m just going through the motions, waiting for something to snap me out of it.”_

Harry notices how bad he’s shaking when he feels something wet sliding down his leg. He puts the spilt mug down on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest and hugging them tightly with the arm not holding the phone.

 _“I keep waiting for the day it’ll stop feeling like my chest is ripped open but...”_ Louis’ words sound faint, his voice sluggish, entangled with sorrow and inebriation. _“How am I supposed to pretend I don’t want to see you again, H?”_

Louis doesn’t say anything else for a long time and Harry is left alone with his thoughts, static serving as soundtrack to his nervous breakdown. Lost in his own heartache, Harry hadn’t spent too much time considering Louis’ feelings regarding their breakup. Truth be told, _Louis_ was the one that had sent Harry away, with little to no explanation to offer besides some bullshit about _distance_ and _commitment_. To hear all this pain and anguish coloring his voice now is like a punch in the gut.

Harry can’t fathom the fluttering energy humming under his skin. At the same time that Louis’ words had crushed the scarce bits of his heart left unbroken, they’ve also evoked an anger Harry hadn’t ever felt before. He wants to reach through the phone and rip the bottle of whatever Louis is drinking off his hand. He wants to smash the thing to pieces and demand to know _why_ . _Why_ is Louis calling him now? _Why_ can he only say everything Harry wants to hear when he’s drunk? _Why_ doesn’t he ask Harry to come back, if they’re both hurting like this?

Apparently done with the silence, Louis is back to speaking on the other end of the line. A sudden sobriety has taken over his voice. “ _Shit, I’m so sorry, Harry. I don’t know why I’m doing this. Fuck_.” There’s a rustle coming from the other side, a couple muffled curses. “ _I shouldn’t be doing this to you. That cheap bottle of wine you bought was still in the fridge and I—”_ Harry flinches at the sound of glass bottles hitting against each other. “ _The necklace really screwed with my head._ _Feel free to ignore this. You don’t owe me anything.”_ His voice sounds far away for a moment. _“Is there a way for me to delete this? Fuck, I’m really sorry._ ”

Harry wants to yell at Louis to come back to the phone. This can’t be it.

He takes in a relieved breath when Louis’ voice comes back. “ _I’ll hate myself so much in the morning_ ,” he lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. “ _This won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll try harder to, like, get my shit together._ _Nevermind about the necklace, too. I’ll take care of it.”_ Louis stops for a moment, seemingly considering his next words. _“I hope you’re doing okay. I hope you’re— I hope you’re happy. I really do.”_ Another pause. _“Alright. Goodnight, H._ ”

He does ignore it.

After staring out the window for fifteen minutes, Harry gets up and pours his cold tea down the sink — phone abandoned on the loveseat.

He doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t want to look at it and think about the things Louis had said. He wishes he could go back in time and flush his phone down the toilet, so he would’ve never listened to the stupid voicemail.

He’s adamant to act like nothing happened. If his hands shake when he washes his hair in the shower, he’s the only one who knows.

The morning passes in a blur. Not the very-productive-busy-day kind of blur, but the anxiety induced blindness that makes Harry go through the motions without thinking. He knows he cooked himself something for lunch, but only because there are dirty dishes in the sink. He _thinks_ he might have answered Niall’s text, but he has no idea what the message was even about in the first place.

Right now, he’s trying to focus on his notes. He’s got a midterm on Monday and his brain feels like scrambled eggs. Soppy, tasteless scrambled eggs.

He slaps both his cheeks lightly, trying to wake himself up. “Snap out of it,” he mutters to himself.

Harry grips his pen resolutely and starts again. Biting the inside of his cheek, he’s determined to write at least a couple hundred words on Advanced Social Studies before he gives up and turns on a wacky rom-com on Netflix.

It’s minutes later when he notices it.

His notes say, “ _sociological imagination can i love you the often unseen social forces that have a concrete impact on our everyday lives_ ”.

He’d meant to write _illuminate_.

Harry closes his eyes and releases an aggravated sigh. Making the conscious decision to overlook it, he grabs the white-out and applies over the words, erasing them.

He manages to write ten more words before he quits, forcefully snapping the notebook shut.

 _What the fuck. What the_ fuck _was that_?

Feeling like he has to prove something to himself — to the universe, _to Louis_ —  he opens the notebook back on the page where he’d written the words. At the bottom of the page, he writes in big, capital letters “ _I DON’T WANT TO LOVE YOU ANYMORE_ ”.

He stares at his writing for a long time, mouth dry with everything he wants to say. He’d never gotten the chance to voice how he felt about it. The day Louis ended it, Harry had been astounded and heartbroken, unable to string his emotions in the shape of a coherent sentence. Since then, it’s been radio silence from both sides.

Until today, that is, when Louis spoke his mind — again — and left Harry with no way of answering — _again_.

He knows it’s not actually true. He could answer. He could pick up the phone and call Louis right now, scream his head off and get this weight off his chest, but Harry doesn’t want to be the first one to break. Louis’ impulsive phone call could be excused as a drunken mistake, but if Harry were to reach out now, it would feel real. It would be a real attempt to build back the burned bridges between them and, in all honesty, Harry is tired of doing the building all by himself.

His body obviously can’t stand to shut down his feelings anymore, though, seeing as it’s trying to get the words out whichever way it can.

Deciding to grant passage to the wave of disappointment that takes over whenever he thinks of Louis, Harry turns the page and writes on the back of [his notes](http://tofiveohfive.tumblr.com/post/178428828369) every thought that comes to his mind.

He writes “ _I’m homesick for your warm hugs and the smell of your neck_ ”, “ _I don’t think my heart is healed yet_ ” and “ _I still love the fucking daylights out of you_ ”. He writes things he wished he’d said before he left, like “ _I don’t like your favorite TV show_ ” and “ _I wish you’d wake me up before leaving in the morning”_. Some phrases, the most candid ones, he buries deeper into the paper, like “ _I want to come home to you_ ” and “ _I don’t forgive you”_ and “ _I’m tired of trying to erase the memory of you”_.

He loses track of time and eventually runs out of paper. Illogically, he’s out of breath, throat feeling raw, like he’d actually screamed all his feelings into a void.

He runs his eyes through the page, all the words blurring into one hurtful sentiment he can’t name. Harry hates it. He hates that this is who’s become, a vessel to all this ache and misery. For the first time since the breakup, Harry wishes he could wipe Louis from his mind, good memories and all.

It’s not fair and he knows he’ll regret even thinking about it, but right now, he’d do anything to get rid of the bitterness running acid in his veins.

He thinks about erasing the words, especially the ones that claim to still love and miss Louis —  like some kind of ludicrous, stupid metaphor — but decides against it. After all, he lives off a part-time job and he still has half a year of uni left. He can’t afford to use a whole bottle of white-out on an naive attempt to lie to himself.

Around five o’clock, Harry comes to terms with the fact that he won’t get anything done, not unless he finds a way to get rid of the restlessness suffused in his bones. That’s how he ends up at the park, running against the frigid late afternoon wind, sky still pouring a few gentle droplets of mist.

His earphones are blasting some indie pop band, the singer angrily voicing feelings of betrayal and loneliness. It’s not long before Harry is forced to skip the song altogether, the line _“I could see my whole life with you, baby”_ hitting too close to home.

His heavy steps eventually come to a halt, his lungs feeling like they’re on fire, unable to draw a full breath. He hunches forward, hands seeking support on his knees. His mind is running a million miles per hour, disconnected thoughts swirling adrift and making him dizzy.

What had Louis meant when he said that he’d _take care_ of the necklace?

Was he going to keep it? Put it inside of a drawer and forget about it? Or was he going to save it for someone else? Another someone who will eventually make his eyes crinkle and turn his voice soft, like Harry used to? Surely he wasn’t going to get rid of it, right?

Harry feels stupid for caring so much about a necklace, one he didn’t even remember existed a couple weeks ago, but he can’t help but feel like this is another piece of himself that he’s giving away without a fight.

That’s his necklace. Louis gave it to _him_. It even has a fucking _H_ on it, for fuck’s sake. Sure, he forgot the damn thing in Louis’ suitcase, but that doesn’t make it any less _his_. You don’t see Harry barging into Louis’ apartment and reclaiming the bracelet he bought him in that small store in Barcelona, or the jumper he had knit for him last winter. You don’t simply take back the gifts after the relationship is over, with little regard for the memories attached to it.

As if things weren’t bad enough, Harry had apparently left his notebook at Louis’ place as well. He has to fight a new wave of nausea when he remembers the things he’d written on those pages. His fears and hopes all laid bare for Louis to read, should the mood ever strike.

How come every weak link in this chain is Harry’s? Why is he the only one getting screwed over at every turn by this breakup?

And what the _fuck_ was that about hoping Harry was _happy_?

Harry’s hands are shaking with suppressed frustration. Up until this morning, he’d felt like he and Louis were playing some sort of waiting game, both stuck in limbo, waiting for that one moment that would make or break them. Albeit somewhat unreliable, due to the amount of alcohol involved, Louis’ resigned voicemail still had set the ball rolling somehow. Harry just didn’t like where it was heading. Louis’ half-assed apologies sounded too much like _quitting_. Harry will be damned if he’ll let this end before he gets some answers.

Harry is not gonna say he’s surprised when he finds himself in front of Louis’ building. All day he’s felt himself growing more and more agitated, the need to _do_ something taking over his every thought and action. If there’s any wonder about his current placement, it’s how long it took him to get here.

He glares fiercely at the intercom. He really doesn’t want to give Louis another chance to send him away. In the end, he decides that it’s best to find a way in without revealing himself.

Amidst an internal battle trying to decide which of his impressions is better — Liam or Zayn — Harry is relieved from embarrassing himself when Mrs. Jones, one of Louis’ kindest neighbors, shows up carrying one too many grocery bags.

“Oh, hello, dear!” Her crinkled face blooms around a wide smile. “I haven’t seen you in a while!”

“Hi, Mrs. Jones.” Harry is feeling too stifled to smile properly, but he offers her his best grimace. “How are you? Would you like some help with those bags?”

“That would be great. Thank you.” She hands over a couple bags,  squinting happily at him. “What are you doing down here by yourself, darling? Did you forget your keys?”

“Yeah, I…” Harry clears his throat. “I can’t get ahold of Louis, so…”

He’s already making peace with the fact that he’s going to hell for lying to an old lady. It’s fine.

“Oh, silliness! Come on in! Help me take these groceries upstairs.” Mrs. Jones uses her key to open the front gate, leaving it open for Harry to follow after her.

They make amicable conversation until they reach her doorstep, on the fourth floor. Harry promises to come over for tea sometime, ignoring the melancholy pooling in his gut, the one reminding him that there’s a great chance he won’t ever return to this building after today.

After Mrs. Jones closes her door, Harry leans heavily against the hallway wall, pressing his fists into his eyes. _What is he even doing here?_

His mind goes back to the voicemail, the sound of Louis’ broken voice playing in a loop inside his head. Harry doesn’t even know what he wants to _say_. For a wild second, he wishes he’d brought the scribbled notebook page with him. That way, he could just shove his feelings in Louis’ face, could grab his stuff and leave before Louis had even finished reading Harry’s most honest confessions.

He shatters that thought as fast as it comes, though. There’s no page. There’s no easy way to do this. There’s only him and all of the words he’s been choking on ever since he left this building five weeks ago.

Harry braces himself and heads for the stairs. He climbs one more floor before he finds himself facing the black 505 fixed outside of Louis’ door. He doesn’t give his mind enough time to freak out about what he’s about to do, hastily pressing the doorbell with numb fingertips.

As soon as he hears the buzzing sound coming from inside the apartment, he takes a much needed breath. It’s done now. No going back.

It takes Louis six minutes and thirty four seconds to answer the door. Harry knows because he counts it.

He feels detached from his body, watching from the outside as the door opens slowly to reveal a frowning Louis, wearing loose sweatpants and a hoodie that looks way too big to be his.

Harry will be damned if he doesn’t recognize that hoodie, too.

“Harry?” Louis gasps. “What are you—”

“I’m here for my necklace,” Harry cuts him off. “And my notebook. And my _hoodie_.”

The paleness in Louis’ face gives way to flushed red cheeks, his arms coming up to wrap around himself, hugging his own body. Harry refuses to feel anything at the sight of Louis’ fists clenched tight in sweater paws, due to the long sleeves. He also vehemently ignores Louis’ sunken eyes and the unwashed state of his hair.

“Oh.”

The obvious disappointment in Louis’ demeanor makes Harry’s heart skip a beat. He has to momentarily close his eyes to stop himself from stepping closer.

“They’re in the— They’re in my room.” As he says it, Louis steps backwards, arms still secure around his waist. He doesn’t offer any more explanation as he heads towards the hallway, leaving Harry alone at the doorstep.

It’s fine. It’s not like he thought he’d be invited inside or anything. It’s just weird to regard Louis’ living room from this point of view — the outside. He spots a couple of dirty tea mugs forgotten on the coffee table and he’s hit by the sudden urge to take those to the sink. In the end, he stuffs his hands inside the pocket of his hoodie to avoid doing anything stupid.

 _It’s not your place anymore_. _You have your own mess to clean up nowadays._

Louis comes back holding Harry’s scarred notebook in one hand and a small box in the other.

“I put it inside the original box.” Louis’ voice barely sounds like anything at all — devoid of any warmth or inflection. “I thought it would be best if…” He stops mid sentence, frowning slightly. He goes on after releasing a defeated sigh. “I don’t know what I thought,” he exhales, finally handing Harry’s stuff over.

Louis is avoiding Harry’s eyes. He hasn’t looked anywhere near Harry’s face since the moment he realized who was waiting for him on the other side of the door, and he’s still staring at the ground as Harry takes the box and the notebook from his hands.

“And the hoodie?”

It sounds cruel even to Harry’s own ears. He’s forced to swallow down the bitter taste of guilt when Louis flinches at the words.

“Oh, I.” Since he can’t exactly watch Louis’ face to read his reaction, Harry studies the way Louis’ fingertips run over the hem of the hoodie in question. “I might have ruined it, a bit? With the wine and everything.”

As he says it, Louis takes two steps back, like he wants to make sure Harry won’t forcefully take the hoodie off of him. That, more than anything, has Harry barely holding in a scream. _Aren’t we far enough already?_

“..Okay?” Harry braces himself for what he’s about to do. “I know it’s been some time since your last visit, but, you _do_ remember we have washing machines in my building, right?”

If Harry is being honest, he can’t fathom what makes him say it. He certainly doesn’t take any pleasure from the way Louis gasps at the words, but it’s like a knee jerk reaction of sorts — the last time Harry allowed Louis to do all the talking, he had to leave his keys on the counter and his heart by the door.

“Harry, _please_ ,” Louis sounds defeated, his voice breaking and his eyes finally moving up to meet Harry’s.

_Louis, please._

The memory hits Harry like a runaway truck. The same pleading word, used in completely different context. Harry’s last attempt at getting Louis to listen to him, to _talk_ to him. It’s like he’s been taken back in time, the gut-wrenching helplessness he felt that last day taking over his body once again.

He feels his muscles giving up, the tension holding his shoulders upright easing and giving way to resignation.

What is he even fighting for here? It’s not like he’ll even be able to use that hoodie ever again — not after seeing the fabric hugging Louis’ small frame; certainly not after knowing for a fact that this was what Louis was wearing when he sent him that voicemail.

Harry is sure that, if he tried hard enough, he’d be able to smell all the misery drenching Louis’ message impregnated on the fibers.

“Keep it,” Harry announces, resolutely. “I changed my mind. You can keep it.”

Now that Louis is finally looking at him, it’s like he’s shining a spotlight upon Harry. Harry is sure that, if Louis took the time to look closely, he’d be able to pinpoint all the ways in which Harry had failed these law few weeks, all the nights he’d spent nursing cheap beer bottles and being haunted by his memories. Louis had always been able to read him thoroughly, and to have those reddened blue eyes watching him attentively again, Harry is terrified of what Louis could find.

He needs to leave. He needs to stay away from this apartment, and especially from Louis.

“This was a mistake,” the words leave Harry’s mouth as soon as he thinks it. “I shouldn’t have come.” He has half a mind to leave the necklace as well. Same as the hoodie, it’s not like he’ll ever put it on again.

Louis frowns at him, surely baffled by the change in Harry’s demeanor. He’d gone from confrontational to unsure in the span of a minute. In Harry’s defense, however, every excuse he’d used to convince himself to come to Louis’ place sounds senseless now.

“I’m gonna go.” He’s already got one foot out the door as he says it. “You can keep whatever else—” Harry can’t make himself finish the sentence. He tries again. “You can do as you please with whatever else you find. I don’t wanna know.” He’s proud of himself for uttering the words without stuttering.

Louis opens his mouth, like he might say something, and Harry can’t have that. He needs to leave _now_. “Have a good night, Louis.”

He turns his back on Louis, the air trapped in his throat, making it hard for him to breathe. It’s okay, though, because as soon as he’s out of this building this will be done — _they_ will be done — and Harry will finally be able move the fuck on with his life.

Maybe it’s because of the turbulence swirling inside his head, but Harry doesn’t hear Louis calling his name until it’s too late, until Louis’ hand reach out and hold his wrist, effectively stopping him from walking any farther.

“Harry, please. Wait.” He can feel Louis’ cold fingertips pressing on his pulse point and, irrationally, he wishes to slow down his own heartbeat, so then it won’t be obvious how much their closeness is affecting him. “I just— I want to apologize again for calling you last night. I had no right to say the things that I did. I’m really sorry for putting you through that.” Clearly embarrassed by his actions, Louis avoids meeting Harry’s face once again. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

There’s so much Harry wants to say. So many things he wants to scream about and an endless list of questions he wants answers for. He settles on, “Why did you?”

Louis tilts his head, seemingly confused. “Why did you call me?” Harry clarifies.

At that, Louis’ hand finally loses its grip on Harry’s wrist. Louis swallows, and even the alluring sight of his throat working can’t distract Harry from the fact that he doesn’t answer.

“Why did you even call me, Louis?” Harry starts again. “You told me to go.” He accuses, fire burning increasingly brighter and angrier inside of his chest. “You suddenly woke up feeling like we weren’t worth it anymore and you told me to leave. And I _did_. You barely had the decency to explain yourself to me, but I still did what you asked.”

“Harry…”

“Did you know I had no shampoo in my apartment?” Harry chuckles, self-deprecating. “It sounds so stupid now, but I refused to make myself go to the grocery store because I was _so sure_ you were gonna call. I had no doubt that you were gonna say it had all been a terrible mistake and you wanted me back.” He swallows down the nausea at the memory. “On the third day, I got tired of waiting and bought myself some _fucking_ shampoo.”  

Harry is not exactly sure when Louis started crying, but there are tear tracks running down both his cheeks, his bottom lip bitten raw. Harry clenches his jaw, trying to stop the prickling sensation behind his own eyelids.

“Believe me when I tell you it was hell, but I eventually managed to drag myself out of the miserable hole of self pity I found myself in. So, please, tell me. Why did you call me five weeks too late?”

Time feels suspended as Harry waits for an answer. He’s not sure he’ll receive any, but something is keeping his body locked in place. He knows he won’t be able to leave without an explanation.

After a lifetime, Louis moves. He raises one sleeve-covered hand and wipes away the tear running down his cheek. His voice sounds shaky at best when he says, “Can we go inside? I don’t think we should be having this conversation in the hallway.”

Going back inside is the last thing Harry wants to do. “Okay.”

Neither of them sits down once they’re back in the living room. Louis stands awkwardly between the couch and the coffee table while Harry makes sure to stay as close to the door as socially acceptable, still holding both his notebook and the little necklace box in his hands.

He appreciates Louis not trying to sugarcoat this, not offering him something to drink or anything ridiculous like that. They both know each other too well and they’re past any pretense that this is a courteous visit. Still, Louis hasn’t said anything. Harry asked him a question and he _still_ hasn’t answered.

“Look, if you’re not gonna—”

“I never told you why Mark left us.” Louis has moved to stand by the window, his back turned to Harry. “I told you about the fights and how hard it was after he moved, but I never told you the real reason.”

Harry’s brain rewires, all his previous thoughts coming to halt. For a moment, it’s like he’s been transported to another dimension, another day in another lifetime, somewhere in which the words leaving Louis’ mouth make sense. He doesn’t understand how Mark leaving more than ten years ago relates to what’s happening between them now.

“They’d been fighting for a long time. Maybe six months, maybe longer than that.” Louis goes on, voice barely above a rasp. “Mum would work most nights, trying to make ends meet, and he’d stay with us.”

“I first noticed things weren’t quite right when he forgot to make us dinner one night. He’d been going over the bills in his office and he completely forgot he had five kids to feed. Still, things didn’t really fall apart until weeks later, when he received the news that he wasn’t getting the promotion he’d been expecting.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more scared than that night. He completely lost it,” Louis’ voice is shaking. “Mum sent us to our rooms, but it wasn’t like we couldn’t hear them screaming through the walls. Mark went off on her, saying it was all her fault, for holding him back. I didn’t even know before that day, but, apparently, Mark had received a couple job offers over the years, but he’d always had to turn them down. Because of _us_.” Louis turns back around, facing Harry for the first time since he’s started. “He’d been offered positions in Manchester, one in London, even, but it was not like he could pack up his five kids plus wife and move, simple as that.”

Harry gasps when it finally sinks in.

 _Oh, no. Oh, Louis_.

“He left us a week later. Moved to Manchester, funnily enough.” Louis’ tear-stained face makes it clear how _not_ funny he finds the entire thing.

“Louis, I’m so sorry.” Harry is surprised by how choked up he sounds. “I’m so fucking sorry. Please, tell me that this isn’t—”

“You turned down the offer, Harry.” Louis’ face completely breaks at that, a sudden sob ripping through his body. “I told you to take it, I said it would be fine, and you still—”

“Louis, _no_.” Harry doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s right in front of Louis, hands dropping the box and the notebook on the couch to reach out for Louis instead. “You got it so wrong, love.”

“I know I’m a fuck up. I know you think you have to hold back, have to wait for me, but—”

He’s so distressed that Harry has to hold his face, hands coming up to cradle Louis’ jaw as gently as possible. “Baby, please, look at me.”

“I don’t want you to comfort me, Harry. I fucked up. I keep fucking up, no matter how hard I try.” Louis refuses to look at him, his eyelashes clumped together with tears. “You shouldn’t even be here. If I’d kept my mouth shut, you’d have moved on by now.”

“That’s bullshit. I’m not moving on anytime soon.”

That’s what finally makes Louis look at him. “But you said—”

“Forget what I said.” It takes Harry a lot of effort not to pull Louis closer to him. “The— The job offer. It’s not what you’re thinking. How could you think you’re holding me back, baby? _God_. You never—”

“Harry, I’m not stupid.” Louis’ hands move to grab his wrists, taking both Harry’s hands off of his face. “It’s a _job offer_. In _London_. Why else would you say no to that?”

That puts him off.

“Stop assuming you know everything that goes through my head,” Harry reprimands, sharply. “I’m not Mark.”

Louis actually recoils at that, like Harry’s just slapped him in the face. “I know that.”

“Do you?” Harry challenges. “Louis, why didn’t you _talk_ to me?”

“You would’ve just—!” Louis seems to think better. He takes a deep breath and starts again. “This is what you do, okay? You protect me, you— Can you honestly tell me you would’ve said something, if you thought this offer would upset me in any way?”

“Yes! Yes, I would!” Harry exclaims, outraged. “I don’t know where this is coming from, Louis. We always talked about stuff. This wouldn’t be any different. If I had _wanted_ that job—”

Louis scoffs, interrupting him. “Now you’re telling me you didn’t want the job. Are you serious?”

“Didn’t I just tell you to stop doing that?” Harry’s voice shakes with irritation. “If you had bothered to _ask_ me, you would’ve known that, no, I didn’t want the bloody job. Not because of you, or any of that bullshit eating away at your brain, but because the salary they offered me was _shit_.” Harry tries to keep his voice low, but Louis still looks skeptic and it’s pissing him off. “You’d have known that the school was more than half an hour away from the closest metro station. I would’ve told you that maybe London was too expensive for me, and that the guy that interviewed me was a _pig_!”

Louis blanches. “You didn’t tell me any of that when got back from the interview.”

“Yeah, well!” Harry throws his hands up in frustration. “When I first told you it hadn’t worked out, you got all weird! I thought maybe you were disappointed in me. Maybe you didn’t want to talk about it, for some reason.” Harry shakes his head, breathing raggedly. “I never imagined that it would become the reason you’d send me packing a few weeks later.”

Harry watches as his words sink in. Louis’ eyes seem glazed over and Harry knows he’s thinking back on the few conversations they had about this. It’s clear the moment Louis understands, because one of his hands rushes to his mouth and he sucks in a gasp. “ _Shit_.”

“Louis…”

“ _Shit_ , Harry.” His voice breaks. “I swear I never meant to hurt you. I really thought I was protecting you.” Louis laughs at himself, suddenly, as a fresh wave of tears wells up in his eyes. “I thought I was protecting you by keeping things from you. I’m such a hypocrite.”

Harry’s heart aches for him. He knows he should feel angry on his own behalf, but the truth is almost cruel as it visibly settles in Louis’ conscience. Since the day Harry had left this apartment, a constant flux of miserable theories had crossed his mind — each new version uglier than the last. At the moment, though, it’s evident that the pessimistic voice in the back of his head had been wrong. Regardless of the distance and the lack of communication, this resilient affection between them lingered; stood strong against all odds.

Nevertheless, despite the relief cursing through his veins, it’s still saddening to witness the regret taking over Louis’ features and, for that, Harry can’t stand the distance between them anymore.

“Hey, come here.”

Louis halts, frowning. “What?”

“Come _here_.” Harry insists, opening his arms. “You’re too far away.”

“Aren’t you _mad_?” Louis asks, bewildered.

“I miss you too much to be mad right now. We can talk more later.” They have all the time in the world to discuss everything that went sour in their relationship, but it’s imperative that he comforts Louis _now_. “Can I hug you?”

Louis just stares at him, perplexed. He most certainly thinks Harry has lost it. Something in Harry’s expression must break through to him, though, because, next thing he knows, Louis closes the distance with slow steps. Once they’re finally close enough, he drops his forehead against Harry’s shoulder, exhaling defeat. He sighs when Harry’s arms wrap around him, squeezing tight.

To have Louis back in his arms is like falling into place, like the earth is finally spinning right in its axis again.

Harry presses several brief kisses to Louis’ temple, moving down to any surface of Louis’ face he can reach. One of his hands rises to massage Louis’ nape as the other one caresses his waist comfortingly. He does his best not to notice how Louis’ arms still hang limp at his sides, but it’s hard to ignore. It’s almost as if he’s afraid of touching Harry and crossing a line.

Harry pulls back just enough to meet Louis’ eyes. “Angel, can you look at me?”

Louis swallows. “You keep asking me that,” he says, but he doesn’t look away.

“Can you blame me? I need to memorize all the new crinkles you’ve gotten this past month,” Harry tries to joke, but it falls flat when Louis lets out a sorrowful breath and tries to pull away. “No, no. Louis, babe. Hear me out.” Harry uses the hand still on Louis’ nape to coerce him to stay. “Don’t beat yourself up on my behalf. Please? Can you stop doing that? We’ll deal with everything in due time.”

“I feel like—” Louis takes in a deep breath and lets it out in a shaky whoosh. “I feel like I haven’t earned your forgiveness. I _want_ to hug you, I do. I want to wrap myself around you and never let you go again, but I don’t feel like I _deserve_ it.”

Harry is appalled by how much _wrongness_ Louis managed to fit in a sentence.

“We’re in this together, Lou. You don’t have to do anything to _deserve_ my kindness.” He wants to open up Louis’ skull and put some sense into it. “I have no doubt you’d be as understanding if our roles were reversed.” When he receives no argument — like he knew he wouldn’t — he goes on. “Besides, none of this shit would’ve happened if I had told you about my interview. This wouldn’t even be an issue if we had both talked to each other. _Both of us_.” Louis seems almost convinced. “We have a lot to learn, baby. I have my own share of guilt in this too. What matters to me right now is that you said it was never your intention to hurt me. I believe you.”

Louis’ blue eyes are red rimmed and his lips are bitten raw, but there’s a newfound certainty in his tone when he says, “I love you, H. I never want to hurt you like that again.” He reaches out to grab the drawstring of Harry’s hoodie and pulls on it lightly. “I know that’s not realistic, but,” Louis sniffs softly. “I’d hate myself.” The last part is said in a whisper.

Harry brings both his hands back to Louis’ face. “We’ll work really hard to avoid that, okay? From now on, we’ll _talk,_ about our _feelings_ and everything.” Like the first warm day after winter, Louis’ eyes light up and he chuckles. It’s enough to ignite a fire in Harry’s heart. “I want to kiss you. Can I?”

“You can always kiss me.”

“Good,” Harry murmurs, already pressing their lips together.

Louis’ timid smile tastes like home; his arms _finally_ hugging Harry’s waist acting as the front doors welcoming Harry in. It’s so soothing that Harry sighs into Louis’ mouth.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he says between open mouthed pecks.

Louis’ tongue traces Harry’s bottom lip before he answers. “You’re the one who has the keys.” With fists clenching the back of Harry’s hoodie, he pulls them closer together, chests heaving against one another. “You always do.”

It doesn’t take long for them to fall into a well-known rhythm. Harry’s tongue relearns all the corners of Louis’ mouth while Louis’ hands pull on Harry’s hips. Harry swallows every sigh, moan and whine Louis lets out, nibbling playfully on his lips.

“I’ve dreamed about this so many times,” Louis confesses against Harry’s throat, breaking their kisses to bury his face in Harry’s neck. “God, I lied. I would’ve totally called you again. I’d have left you a thousand messages. I missed you so much.”

Harry takes a moment too long to answer, distracted by the wetness of Louis’ eyelashes against his skin. “Thank you for that, by the way.” He uses the hand already on Louis’ neck to untangle the messy strands of hair he meets there. “It really kicked my ass into moving. I filled a whole page of my notebook with angry notes to you.”

Louis pulls back, laughing softly and looking as endearing as ever. “You did _what_?”

“Turns out I kept a lot bottled up.” Harry shrugs. “They’re not all bad, actually. There’s quite a few lines about how stupidly beautiful you are. I’ll show you when we go back to mine to pick up my stuff.”

“Okay,” Louis rests his forehead back on the space between Harry’s collarbones. “Is it weird that I want to shower with you?”

“Not weird at all. Especially considering the sad state of your hair.” Harry kisses his forehead affectionately. “When was the last time you _shaved_ , love?”

“ _Hey_ ,” Louis tries to protest, but the laughter in his voice has the opposite effect. “Don’t judge me. You know I’m not my best self without you.”

Harry tightens his hold on Louis’ waist one last time, trying to convey with a hug everything that he’s feeling. “I couldn’t judge you. I didn’t fare much better.” He takes a step back. “Let’s do it, then. Please tell me you have a pair of clean towels.”

Louis nods. “I do.”

With their fingers tangled, they take lazy steps towards the bathroom, Louis stopping once to kiss Harry’s shoulder. Once they’re inside, they help each other undress. Harry is extra careful taking off Louis’ — _his_ — hoodie, folding it loosely and putting on the countertop.

Louis watches him curiously. “I barely wore another piece of clothing, you know?”

Harry gives him a sad smile and moves to work on Louis’ sweatpants.

“What?” Louis asks.

Harry shakes his head, reluctant. “It’s nothing.”

“Harry,” Louis admonishes. “Didn’t we _just_ —”

“I don’t want this to become sad again.” Louis frowns at that, but doesn’t relent. “It’s silly. I just...” Harry licks his lips, trying to find the words. “We live here, right? Like, all of our stuff and clothes and memories. It’s all here, at your place.”

He feels himself getting choked up. Luckily, he doesn’t have to elaborate any further. “Baby,” Louis’ hands run all the way from his shoulders to his jaw, his thumbs caressing Harry’s chin tenderly. “I’m gonna make such a mess of your place the next time we go there. You won’t be able to even brush your teeth without thinking of me.”

“You better.” Harry kisses the tip of one of his thumbs. “Now let’s do something about that hair.”

They spend a long time in the shower.

Every touch seems to remind them of the time lost, so they make sure to pay attention to every inch of each other’s skin. Louis rubs shampoo over Harry’s scalp with an appreciation he never had before. In return, Harry shaves Louis’ face with careful fingers — after making an absolute mess of the bathroom floor reaching out for the forgotten supplies in the sink.

It’s anything other than sexual and for that Harry is thankful. He doesn’t think they’re ready for that kind of emotional discharge just yet.

Still, he seizes the opportunity to reconnect with his favorite birthmark at the bottom of Louis’ spine.

“Will you get up from there? This is hardly fair,” Louis says, looking at Harry behind his back. “I have a lot to make up for as well.”

“And you can do that later,” Harry argues, his lips brushing against Louis’ wet skin. “I’m too busy spending some quality time with the dimples in your back.”

Louis’ complaints turn into giggles when Harry strokes the back of both his knees lovingly. “Hazza, I’m serious. Come back up here.”

Harry bites one of Louis’ buttcheeks playfully before getting up, his knees clicking in the process. “You’re no fun.”

Louis kisses his chin once they’re face to face again. “I miss your mouth.” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he captures Harry’s lips in an open-mouthed kiss.

Harry’s hands find their place on Louis’ waist as confident fingers tangle themselves in his curls, conducting the kiss. The constant spray of water falling upon them makes it even harder to breathe, so Harry gently pushes them both against the wall. Louis winces as his back meets the cold tiles.

“Ouch,” he pouts. “Do you deem me clean enough? Shall we move this to the bedroom?”

Harry chuckles, shaking his head fondly. “You’re perfect.” He wraps his arms around Louis’ lower back, pulling him closer to his chest and away from the wall. “We can do whatever you want.”

“Okay, then I want us to take a nap amongst our big fluffy duvet.”

“Your wish is my command,” Harry declares, already shutting down the shower.

“Later, we’ll make dinner.”

“Okay.”

“But first, we have to go pick up groceries. There’s nothing in the cabinets.”

“Fine by me.”

“Then we’ll fall asleep again. Together. On the same bed. Me wrapped around you.”

Harry fears that his grin might actually break his face. “Loving this whole plan you’ve got going on.”

“Oh, you just wait until you hear what I’ve got planned for the rest of our lives—” Louis’ sentence is cut short when Harry can’t refrain himself from kissing his twitching, smiling lips anymore.

In the end, instead of in their duvet, they fall asleep amongst damp towels.

Once their relaxed bodies hit the mattress, it doesn’t take long for them to find the best way to entangle their limbs and fit alongside one another.

The soft puffs of breath Louis exhales against the skin of his neck are the last thing Harry registers before surrendering to exhaustion.

Harry wakes up shivering.

Despite the warmth of Louis’ arm thrown across his chest, the lack of covers combined with the drop in temperature outside turns the room cold, making Harry press back against Louis’ chest instinctively.

Try as he might, though, he can’t go back to sleep, so he focuses on Louis’ forearm tattoo instead, tracing its lines with sleepy fingers. Harry would happily stay in this moment forever, but a new wave of goosebumps — this time on Louis’ skin — compels him to move.

As carefully as possible, Harry removes Louis’ arm from around himself and places it on the bed. Trying not to make much noise, he gets up and looks around for a duvet. He finds one in the small bedroom closet and places it on top of Louis, making sure to cover his shoulders and feet.

That being done, he goes back to the closet to look for some clothes for himself. He grabs a pair of Louis’ underwear and an old uni sweatshirt, putting them on before leaving the bedroom with silent steps, bare feet on the cold floor.

Once in the living room, he immediately spots the little box and the notebook he’d abandoned on the couch earlier. The box is lying half open, revealing the [necklace](https://i.etsystatic.com/10150714/d/il/565d26/1313900268/il_340x270.1313900268_hbj0.jpg?version=0) tucked inside and Harry gasps at the sight of it. He crosses the room with hurried steps and sits on the cushions, hooking his finger on the chain and pulling it out of the box.

He hasn’t seen this necklace in more than a year. The last time he’d worn it had been on their trip to Paris — when he’d taken it off and dropped it carelessly inside Louis’ suitcase, before heading down to the hotel pool.

Holding it in his hands now, after all this time, just adds to the emotional charge of the day. He remembers when Louis gave it to him, six months into their relationship. According to Louis, it had been for no reason other than that the anchor pendant made him think of Harry, the little “H” attached to it sealing the deal. Nowadays, Harry knows that the anchor means much more than a cute pendant. It means hope, strength, safety. It means having something — someone — to ground you. A backbone to support you. It means _home_.

Harry knows because he got an anchor tattooed on his wrist not a year later. He knows because, on the same day he got an anchor, Louis got a rope.

Harry could write a book about the symbolism of having found a rope to his anchor.

Driven by an overwhelming sentiment he can’t name, Harry goes back to the bedroom with the necklace clenched tight in a fist. To his surprise, he’s saved from the arduous task of waking Louis up — finding the other boy already sitting, obviously having a hard time staying awake.

“Why did you leave—” Louis is interrupted by a yawn. Once he gets a look at Harry, though, the sleepiness on his face is replaced by a somber, more cautious expression. “Woah, you look intense. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything’s great. Do you remember this?” Harry holds up the necklace for him to see.

Louis raises both his eyebrows. “If I remember that? Pretty sure I had a full ass breakdown over it yesterday. Didn’t you get the message?” He chuckles at his own joke.

Harry thinks he’s very cute. “You’re cute.” He climbs on the bed with unsteady knees, sitting back on his feet between Louis’ spread legs. “Can you help me put it on?”

Louis’ voice is tender when he whispers, “Of course, babe.”

It feels like coming full circle, when Louis finally clasps the chain back in its place.

Suddenly, a question springs to the forefront of Harry’s mind.

“What did you mean in your message, when you said ‘ _you’d take care of it_ ’?”

Louis bites his bottom lip, sheepish. “I would never get rid of it or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“It’s not what I’m thinking,” Harry reassures him. He thinks back to a couple hours ago, when every possible scenario had crossed his mind. He wants to slap himself for ever thinking Louis would throw it away. Or worse, give it to somebody else. This is _theirs_. Louis would _never_. Harry knows better than that. “I’m just curious, because you sounded like you had a plan in mind.”

“It’s embarrassing, to be honest,” Louis rubs the back of his neck self-consciously. “I was maybe planning on wearing it? Like.. Jesus, this is the _cheesiest_ — Since I’d lost my anchor — that’s you, obviously — I’d resort to the next best thing? Your _anchor_ necklace? God, I hate every word coming out of my mouth right now.”

“You’re such a sap.” Harry is helplessly endeared.

“I told you it was embarrassing.”

“I love you.” He leans forward to peck Louis’ lips softly. “And that scenario wouldn’t have worked for me, by the way, because then I’d need something as ridiculous as a rope bracelet or something.”

“You say that as if you’d never wore one before,” Louis teases, pinching the skin of Harry’s thigh gently. “Luckily for the both of us, we don’t have to think about it anymore.” He gives Harry a broad, genuine smile. “And I love you, too. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

Harry remembers angry words written over discarded notes. He remembers the sorrowful remarks standing out amongst pleas for an explanation and declarations of undying love. Remembers how futile it had seemed, to spend an entire bottle of white-out erasing feelings he knew wouldn’t go away.

On one hand, Harry now thinks he can spare some of it rectifying the more resentful phrases like “ _I DON’T WANNA LOVE YOU ANYMORE_ ” and “ _I don’t forgive you_ ”. On the other, he knows he’s gonna need a little more time to get rid of the “ _I don’t think my heart is healed yet_ ” observation. He has no doubt that it’ll take a great deal of work, patience and compromise to overcome the weaknesses of their relationship that have been brought to light in the past month.

The bright side, though, is that he may also need a new notebook to jot down all the newfound sappiness cursing through his mind. Louis’ sleepy face alone makes him want to wax poetic about his love all over the walls in bold, permanent marker.  
  
“Hey, love,” Louis’ voice snaps him out of his thoughts. “Where did you go just now?”

“Nowhere,” Harry grins, picking up Louis’ hand, still resting on his thigh, so he can turn it around and press a kiss to its palm. “I was just thinking… how soon do you think we can go to the grocery store? I need to pick up some things.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you thought of this story on [tumblr](http://www.tofiveohfive.tumblr.com) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/tofiveohfive)!
> 
> here's the [post](http://tofiveohfive.tumblr.com/post/180147895519) to this fic, if you wish to support a struggling writer.
> 
> thank you for reading!


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